


Promises to Keep

by muses_circle



Series: We All Fall series [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brokenness, Character Death, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, F/M, Mystery Spot montage 'AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-27
Updated: 2009-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22885216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muses_circle/pseuds/muses_circle
Summary: The woods are lovely, dark and deep, / But I have promises to keep, / And miles to go before I sleep  - Robert Frost
Relationships: Sam Winchester/OFC
Series: We All Fall series [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1059086
Kudos: 1





	Promises to Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No, I don’t own Sam and Bobby. I do, however, own the girl, so all her faults are mine. This takes place during the six months Sam is looking for The Trickster during his alternate universe nightmare in "Mystery Spot".

_“It’s Sam. Leave me a message.”_  
  
Emma frowned at Sam Winchester’s curt tone of voice on the message. _Why does he sound so angry?_ she wondered and looked down at the phone with unseeing eyes. “Don’t wanna leave a message,” she grumbled. “I’d rather talk to you.” She pulled the cell phone away from her ear and ended the call. Why bother speaking to a voice mail that clearly wasn’t being checked anymore?  
  
The small café around the corner from her Forth Worth, Texas hotel room was quiet and dark - filled with what she assumed were mostly natives – and the perfect spot to hide and unwind from her hectic Saturday. Emma picked up a spoon and absently stirred a little container of creamer into her coffee and watched the white blend into the black in a swirl of contrasts. As much as she wanted to shut off her thoughts, that was unlikely to happen. Not when she still had more work to do.  
  
Her collaborative book had turned into something of a hit among the paranormal community, and consequently, she had taken a short sabbatical to help promote the book at some conventions and independent paranormal/occultist bookstores. The day was long and grueling, especially since Emma wasn’t used to this kind of attention. The men in their X-Files t-shirts and holey jeans gazed longingly at her, probably wishing she had red hair so they could take her away and call her ‘Scully’. The women, who looked like they’d just gotten back from an abduction scenario, wanted to be her friend and forced a barrage of questions on her.  
  
And while she answered them with as much composure and professionalism as possible, Emma bit back the fact that there was much more to the tale than she could ever divulge. If these people only knew. How many of them got that possession was _real_ , that spiritual forces existed on another plane and sometimes enjoyed invading _this_ one to create chaos and horror for kicks? That weapons – sometimes in the form of condiments – existed to annihilate the things that went bump in the night? That there were men and women who put their lives on the line to track and hunt them?  
  
If people got what was really out there, then horror movies wouldn’t be so popular. People would stay indoors after dark – in tightly locked houses – and take measures to protect themselves. After all, Emma had learned to do just that since meeting the Winchesters.  
  
 _Sam._ She flinched inwardly at the thought of him and almost reached for her phone to call again. They hadn’t seen each other since the previous summer, despite Sam’s promise to come back and visit one day. While part of her remained hopeful for his return, the sensible side told her to move on. Sam’s job took him everywhere and was incredibly dangerous. Much like a soldier at war, he had bigger and better things to think about than a woman he’d met along the way. Even though they kept in touch – oh the wonders of the technology age – Emma realized that, as every day passed, their connection weakened a little. Sure, she knew about Dean’s deal, had practically beat it out of Sam in order to offer him some comfort and help, but there was little she could do to boost his obviously non-existent morale.  
  
That a demon was “helping” Sam find the deal-breaker didn’t sit well with her, either, but she figured that Sam was using her for information. The only problem was, what did _Ruby_ want from him? While Emma wasn’t an expert on demons – having only the solitary brush with a possessed person – she recognized that demons didn’t give without taking. She knew Sam could take care of himself most of the time: however, he had a big blind spot where Dean was concerned. Having lost both her parents and experienced watching the people she loved die, Emma sympathized with him, knew the desperation that accompanies the helplessness.  
  
With her coffee finished and her plate of food picked apart, Emma thought about returning to her room and calling Sam again for the third time that day. She knew the last time they’d spoken on the phone, he and Dean were searching for a woman named Bela Talbot, a con artist and thief who apparently bought and sold supernatural items on the black market. _Who knew people could make a decent living off that?_ she wondered. Sam mentioned that Bela had stolen something quite valuable from them, though he wouldn’t say what. All she knew was it might prove useful in defeating the demon that held Dean’s contract and the full scale demonic war the hunters were currently fighting.  
  
Sam had promised to remain in contact when he could. Emma thought about whether he saw her as a tether to “normalcy”, to a life he wished to live – to a man he longed to be. She noticed with the last several calls and emails that Sam had taken on the semblance of a hard-nosed hunter. Someone who had endured so many hurts and bruises that he’d shut off his heart and soul, for fear they’d be lost. The hunger in his voice was one of the few ways Emma knew that Sam still was himself inside, the warm and protecting guy she had come to know in the last several months.  
  
But several weeks had passed since that phone call, and while Emma continued to research other methods of breaking demonic contracts, her well had long since run dry. She had nothing more to offer Sam, except support and a kind word. Now it appeared that Sam and Dean Winchester had fallen off the grid. Sam was not returning her voice mails, and detailed searches through newspaper articles revealed nothing more than a series of strange and unlikely events that spoke of little more than hunters being successful in the jobs they took. No mention of a Winchester dead or alive, save for a news reel that made national news, concerning a police station that had burned to the ground with several FBI agents, the local sheriff and his staff, and two suspects in custody at the time. Emma had prayed that the latter wasn’t Sam and Dean, but since there hadn’t been a phone call . . .  
  
“You’re not gonna think on that,” she whispered to herself and pushed the plate away. “He’s not dead.” If she kept telling herself that, then maybe she’d begin to believe it.  
  
Emma put some cash on the table to cover the meal and a generous tip and stood up, eyes focused on the door. A tall, lean figure strode in and sat down at the first booth. Something in the way the man moved was familiar, the broad shoulders and back that now faced her. Narrowing her eyes in concentration, she watched the back of his head bobble slightly with movement. A waitress stood in front of his table, so she figured he was speaking to her about his meal. Moments passed before Emma realized who it was. Sam Winchester.  
  
He was here. Alive and well. Briefly, she wondered where Dean was, but her entire being was wrapped up in the flood of relief at spotting Sam. What was he doing there? Was he okay? Had he gotten her voice mail telling him she was in Fort Worth? Perhaps he listened to her message after all and decided to meet her here, at this restaurant, at this time. Did he know how much she’d missed him?  
  
A myriad of questions pounded her brain as she quickly strode towards him. When she stopped and turned to him, she whispered, “Sam?” And discovered that the man seated before her looked and dressed like Sam - the faint trace of after-shave was familiar to her and triggered a myriad of memories - but she didn’t recognize the face, or the emotionless hazel green orbs that stared back at her. This wasn’t _her_ Sam. The man seated in the booth was a stranger.  
  
Despite the dismay and numbing shock that coursed through her, Emma sat down in the empty booth seat across from him and frowned as a momentary flicker of recognition crossed his otherwise impassive face.  
  
“Emma?” Sam asked, his voice gruff and hollow. “What the hell are you doing here?”  
  
“I guess you didn’t get my voice mail?”  
  
The blank face registered remembrance for a moment. “Yeah, got one . . . a week ago?” Sam looked at her, and she shivered over the distinctly emptiness there. It was almost as if he’d died. “What are you here for?”  
  
“Book signing convention thing this weekend at the civic center,” she said and attempted a smile. “Didn’t think you’d be around. It was a long shot, wondering if you’d . . . meet me or something.”  
  
Sam’s smooth skin was tight, stone-like. She watched him clench his jaw and force a nod. “Not really here. Just driving through.”  
  
“Then how’d you know I’d be eating dinner here?” she asked. “Have you checked your messages today?”  
  
Sam nodded his head a little but said nothing.  
  
“So you . . . knew I’d be here.”  
  
Another nod. And silence.  
  
Emma sat back in her seat and folded her arms across her chest. _What had happened to change Sam like this? Where was Dean?_ “If you’re just stopping, where you headed?” she asked instead, unwilling to cause Sam any more pain.  
  
Sam turned his head to look out the window and remained mute. Emma watched him for a long moment, noticed the tic of his jaw muscle working with . . . impatience? Irritation? She honestly didn’t know. The fact that he had yet to look at her gave credence to her theory that something horrible had happened to Dean. She glanced down at her hands resting against the table and fought for something to say.  
  
“Been worried about ya, _cher_. Is . . . everything okay?”  
  
Watching Sam stiffen in obvious pain, Emma felt like smacking herself for asking the wrong question. The last thing she wanted was to upset him. Because clearly he was already beyond distress, with his slumped shoulders and utterly blank features. It was as if she was sitting with an automation.  
  
She cleared her throat and started again. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but I think I already know the answer to that.”  
  
Frigid eyes honed in on her. “What do you know about it?” Sam hissed.  
  
Shock ran through her veins like electricity. “I got eyes, Sam,” she said frankly and reached across the table to him. And frowned when he shrunk from her touch. “Something’s wrong, and I’d like to help.”  
  
“Wrong? What makes you think something’s wrong?” he demanded. “Been hunting. I’m tired. Just wanted to eat and find a place to crash.”  
  
“You can stay with me,” Emma replied quietly. “I got an extra bed in my room.” His piercing, inquisitive eyes bore into her skull; she wasn’t sure if he was listening or not. The distinct lack of emotion coming from him scared her. She wanted to ask about Dean’s whereabouts, but not in public and certainly not when he was watching her like he would for signs of possession. “Might save you some money,” she continued when he did not speak. “I mean, if you want to. I remember y’all were always living tight because of the cash flow.”  
  
She swore she saw a flicker of intense emotion cross Sam’s face, a brief moment of pain and loneliness that had been bottled up and held in check, and for a moment it looked as if he would tell her what was on his mind; about whatever hell he currently found himself in.  
  
But the look passed: the fire died, and the shell of a man who sat across from her looked as haunted and vacant as he had when he walked in. Tears welled in Emma’s eyes, though she refused to acknowledge them, and she mentally kicked herself for not knowing the words to offer the solace he needed.  
  
Silently, Emma looked around the café, found the closest waitress, and with a snap of the fingers, asked her to the table. “Need to place an order to go,” Emma informed the other woman and then looked at Sam. “Sam, order whatever you want. My treat. We’ll go back to my hotel so you can eat in peace, okay?”  
  
All she received was a small nod of acknowledgment as he gave the waitress his food order, but Emma caught the small relieved look on Sam’s face. Maybe companionable silence would help him . . . if he wanted help.  
  


  
He did little to deter Emma’s decision to bring him back to her upscale hotel room: once his food was ready and safely tucked in his hand, she’d led him back to the Impala. A short time later, Sam found himself seated in a comfortable chair, dinner spread out before him, and a beautiful Southern woman seated across from him and watching him like a worried mother hen.  
  
She hadn’t asked about Dean, hadn’t verbally expressed any wonder about his brother. Did that suggest she already suspected the truth? Sam focused on his dinner while ignoring the questions that aimlessly wandered through his mind. It had been three days since he ate. Taking care of that vampire nest in Austin took longer than anticipated: the bastards were tricky having learned to spend more time out in direct sunlight without betraying the pain they felt. Unfortunately, they’d been able to find Sam’s sleeping place during the day and nearly killed him.  
  
However, they hadn’t considered that he’d prepared for them, that taking their heads brought about a pleasure he hadn’t felt since . . .  
  
 _Stop it, Sam_ , a voice echoed in his mind as he swallowed a mouthful of food. _Stop thinking about the past. Worry about the present. Get back to the Impala and get the hell out of here. You got better things to do_. Sam winced at thoughts that sounded too much like Dean’s voice in his head.  
  
Being around Emma had evoked the memories of being on the Gulf Coast, of working with Dean to exorcise the demon terrorizing that particular stretch of beach. Sam had to cut this short. The gaping, pulsating hole where his heart used to be didn’t need the reminder of better days.  
  
He glanced at her while taking a drink of water and wondered at the look of determined hopefulness etched onto her face. He knew his cold demeanor and the mask he wore bothered her, and Sam dreaded her inevitable questions about Dean. Not because he hated the sound of her voice, but because he did not want to be under the spotlight. He refused to think: Sam liked the numbness that had taken permanent residence in his head, the balm that soothed the pain of loss that Dean’s death had caused. Revisiting that was too much.  
  
Emma cocked her head; he wanted to block out the intensity of her dark eyes analyzing him. “Where’s Dean, Sam?”  
  
 _Dammit. I don’t want to answer that question_. Sam looked down at his plate and forked a large piece of chicken. “Where do you think?” he growled.  
  
“He’s not . . . I mean, he’s okay, isn’t he?” Emma sounded doubtful.  
  
Sam frowned and gave her a hard look. “What did I just say?”  
  
“Sam.” She reached out her hand and tried to touch his arm.  
  
But the last thing Sam wanted was any kind of comfort. He didn’t need it, refused to acknowledge that he had a problem. “Get away from me,” he hissed and scooted his chair back to avoid her. Emma looked like she had been slapped in the face by his rejection; Sam’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. She did not deserve this treatment. He stood up and walked over to the window, his back to her.  
  
“Please, let me help you.”  
  
Sam heard the muted scraping of the chair on the carpet and felt Emma’s presence behind him a moment later. “I don’t need any damn help. Doing fine on my own,” he said and turned around to find her standing inches from him, her chin jutted out and arms folded across her chest.  
  
“Yeah, the whole ‘tall dark and brooding’ thing seems to be working out just fine, I see,” she snarked.  
  
“Quit making jokes. This isn’t funny!”  
  
“At least you still recognize sarcasm when you hear it.”  
  
“I’m not deaf, Emma!” _I’m just dead inside. There’s a difference!_ He passed around her and stormed back to his seat at the table, though he grabbed the bottle of beer instead of the plastic fork. Eating was not an option, not right now, when his stomach churned with self-loathing over what could’ve been and shouldn’t have happened.  
  
“Good. That means you’ll hear it when I kick your ass for not calling me!” she shouted from across the room.  
  
Sam felt her glaring at him and turned around to face her. “What was there to say? _Hey, Em, just thought you should know. Dean’s dead, I burned his body, and I’m after his killer. Take care._ Yeah, that would’ve gone over so well.” He took a long drink in an effort to hold back the tide of angry words.  
  
“You still should’ve called me, Sam!”  
  
He plopped the bottle onto the table. “Why?” he asked and took a couple steps towards her. _I shouldn’t have come here with her_ , he thought. _I don’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Not ever._  
  
“Because I liked your brother!” Emma blurted out and wrapped her arms around herself. “Because I know how much you’re hurting! And I told you I wanted to know if . . .” Her dark eyes met his, and Sam saw the swirl of emotion: the hurt and despair. The sense of loss. He vaguely remembered his promise to call her if he couldn’t save Dean in time, if the Hellhounds came for his brother and left him alone. What Sam hadn’t counted on was losing Dean to some random shooting. Or that the Trickster was behind all of it.  
  
“Excuse me if I forgot to call and tell you,” he said in a flat voice. “Not like I was expecting it to happen.”  
  
Tears shone in Emma’s eyes, but he watched her keep them at bay as she sighed and looked down. “How did he die?” she queried.  
  
“Gunshot wound.”  
  
“Who did it?”  
  
“A man.” Not exactly the truth, but what did it matter? Emma didn’t need to know all the details of what he had been doing, who he was coming after. The less she knew, the better.  
  
She nodded and looked back at Sam again. “And is he in jail? Was he arrested? What happened to him?”  
  
There was a look in her eyes that asked another question: _what happened to you? Why won’t you let me in?_ How to answer those questions, he was not sure. Some small part of him wanted nothing more than to let this go and tell her everything: about his single-minded need to hunt down Dean’s true killer and make it pay for the hell it had put Sam through. To bury himself in her strength and warmth and take comfort in the knowledge that someone gave a damn about whether Sam self-destructed or not.  
  
“Things are . . . complicated,” Sam said and looked at the floor in front of him.  
  
“How, _cher_? Did Dean’s killer get away? You need help tracking him down?”  
  
“No,” Sam scoffed. “I’m doing fine on my own.”  
  
“Yeah, I can see that. Does doing fine include becoming a mindless automaton or making yourself so scarce that the people who give a damn about you believe you’re dead?”  
  
Emma – ”  
  
“Because if that’s your criteria for _fine_ , then sign me up for those Sam Winchester lessons.”  
  
Despite the pain he felt in the deepest part of his soul, Sam smiled a little. He had forgotten Emma’s witty snark, so reminiscent of Dean’s. He realized he missed that kind of reality check. “There’s a large fee involved,” he joked, though his voice fell flat.  
  
“Oh?” Emma asked and cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’m willing to pay as long as it includes the truth.”  
  
“If you want it.”  
  
“Sam, what do you think I’ve been trying to get you to tell me since this conversation began? I don’t usually like to hear myself talk.”  
  
Sam ran a hand over his face and walked over to the neatly made bed, the one that he most likely would sleep in that night, provided Emma would still let him crash there. “Look, the guy who shot Dean’s in custody, but there’s something . . . more to it than just a robbery.”  
  
Emma closed the distance between them and sat on the edge of her bed, and her presence warmed Sam a little. The problem was, he did not know where to begin, or how to tell her about the Trickster. He remained silent while trying to formulate the best way to convey the worst thing that had ever happened to him.  
  
She must have sensed his hesitation, because she frowned. “Is this about that Ruby girl?” she asked. “You mentioned she was a demon, Sam. Did she do something to – ?”  
  
 _If only_ , he thought and looked into her eyes. “No, Emma,” he interrupted her. “Ruby’s . . . she has nothing to do with this.”  
  
“Then what? Just spit it out, okay?”  
  
“The thing that got Dean was a Trickster. It’s a demi-god. And it wanted revenge for last year, when Dean and I hunted it down and killed it.” He shook his head and glanced at his hands. “Well, we thought we’d killed it.”  
  
“Wait a second. You’re telling me a _god_ did this?” she replied. “Do you know which god we’re talking here?”  
  
“Not specifically, it could have been one of a hundred different trickster gods: Loki, Coyote, Anasazi - does it really matter?” Sam answered and watched understanding skirt across her face. “The bastard killed my brother, and I want it dead.” The anger in his voice surprised him, because it was a poor reflection of what was going on in his heart and soul. He looked away from her and stared at the wall.  
  
Sam wanted revenge: it wasn’t enough to merely kill the Trickster. He wanted to catch it somehow and torture it before putting a large wooden stake into its heart. And until that time came, Sam refused to think of anything else.  
  
Or put anyone else in his life in danger. Whether she liked it or not, Emma would remain ignorant about his dark purpose. He couldn’t afford to lose anyone else he cared about. Bad enough that Bobby kept calling him to remind Sam that he wasn’t alone and that he could help.  
  
“In other words, you want to get even,” Emma said. “Don’t you, Sam? This isn’t about justice, is it? You really want to do this thing harm.” The hurt and anguish that lingered in her voice tormented him, but he did not acknowledge that she’d read him so succinctly.  
  
Instead, Sam stood up and shrugged off his jacket and outer button-down shirt. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said and headed for the bathroom. “That is, if I can still stay here.” He paused but kept his back turned towards her. _I can’t face her_ , he thought. _She doesn’t need to get involved with this. Or with me. Not now._  
  
“You’re my friend, Sam. I’d do anything for you,” came the reply, and Sam felt his heart tug towards the feisty brunette who had not given up on him. Yet.  
  
With a nod of his head, he muttered, “Thanks” and disappeared into the bathroom. Tired and frustrated, Sam stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower.  
  


  
When the bathroom door shut quietly, Emma felt like a large, yawning chasm opened between Sam and her. Not that she figured Sam Winchester was the touchy-feely kind of guy, but one thing she had learned was that if something was on Sam’s mind, eventually it would come out, be it through a phone call or an email. Yet over the past several months, it seemed that the younger Winchester had trained himself how to better guard his secrets. Where once she’d found him an open book, with the right encouragement, the man she’d met today had shut himself off and learned to do it well.  
  
Until recently, she knew about Sam’s struggle to find an out for Dean, could hear the despairing tone behind his emails when he began to realize he might not find the solution.  
  
The person in her shower had thrown a wall up between them and effectively shut her out of his life. Sam’s vague responses and double talk not only had her confused, but hurt and angry as well. She had thought them friends, despite the long-distance nature of their relationship. Knowing Sam chose not to contact her after Dean’s death cut deeper than she wanted to admit; raw hurt flooded her veins like an open wound, and she fought to keep that under wraps. Now was not the time to deal with it.  
  
Sam mentioned _he_ wanted the Trickster dead. What about his hunter friend Bobby? Emma knew little of the man, having been unable to glean anything on him from Sam, but since his was the only name that ever came up in conversation with the brothers, she wondered if this Bobby wasn’t a kind of family member to the Winchesters. So how come he wasn’t with Sam tonight? Why hadn’t Sam mentioned anything about Bobby? Was Sam truly attempting to take on a _god_ alone?  
  
Standing, Emma walked to the other side of the room to the table, where Sam had tossed his duffel bag when he walked inside. It was time to find out more about Bobby, she thought, or at least find a phone number where she could contact him. Something was wrong with Sam, and she suspected it was much more than simply mourning over Dean’s untimely death.  
  
Surprisingly, Sam’s cell phone was in his duffel, settled on top of a change of clothing just inside. She pulled it out after a quick glanced towards the bathroom door. The sounds of water and movement told her Sam was still in the shower. Her thoughts wandered briefly to thoughts of how the warm water slid down his chiseled chest and broad shoulders – and how she’d once touched and tasted his skin – but pushed that into the recesses of her mind when she felt the room grow warm.  
  
Emma glanced at the phone’s LCD screen, which indicated Sam had several missed calls. _He hasn’t been taking any phone calls, not just mine_ , she thought and pressed the button to pull up the list of missed calls. To her surprise, they all came from the same number. _Bobby Singer_. And all these calls had been made within the last several hours. She frowned. _Why wasn’t Sam talking to Bobby?_  
  
She grabbed a piece of paper and pen and wrote down the phone number and slipped the phone back into Sam’s bag just as she heard the shower turn off and the bathroom door open a few moments later. Emma sat down at the table and pretended to look interested in her fingernails, when all she really wanted to do was watch Sam.  
  
Especially when she’d caught a flash of naked skin and a towel around his hips. She swallowed hard and picked at her hands. “Shower was okay?” she asked and prayed her voice sounded normal.  
  
Sam snorted but made no reply. She felt his presence hovering over her, warming her already flushed senses. He smelled like cheap hotel soap and _man_ – a musky smell that was distinctively Sam. A scent she had never forgotten, no matter how much time had passed. She turned to find his back to hers, one hand clutched at the towel around his waist and the other rummaging around in his bag for clean clothing, she assumed.  
  
“Dammit, Bobby,” she heard Sam grumble under his breath. Emma glanced at Sam’s free hand and saw that he’d picked up his cell.  
  
“What about Bobby?” she asked and leaned across the table, focused on his hand instead of his smooth, muscular back.  
  
The cell disappeared into his bag. “Nothing,” Sam said and pulled out some clothes. “Just haven’t had a chance to call the guy lately. Seems like he needs to talk . . . or something.” He straightened and gave Emma a pointed, curious look. For a brief second, she swore she saw a little of the old Sam – inquisitive, attentive, and aware of her presence. Hazel eyes flared with warmth, but only for the briefest moment. With a sinking heart, Emma watched them die and become hard and dead again.  
  
“Isn’t Bobby helping you with tracking down the Trickster?” she asked and stood up, a little unnerved over Sam’s intent gaze.  
  
“Don’t need his help.”  
  
 _You mean you don’t want his help_ , she mused to herself but remained quiet. Sam looked tired and worn down, though his posture reminded her of a tightly wound spring. Any little thing would make him snap, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be around him when that happened.  
  
She stood up and moved away from him, partly because she needed to get ready for bed herself, but also because she no longer wanted to invade Sam’s personal space – something that had grown larger and more impenetrable as the night wore on. “I’ll . . . I’m going to get ready for bed,” she whispered and grabbed her comfortable and conservative pajamas from underneath her pillow, where she usually stashed them. She snuck a look in his direction, noticed he was about to drop the towel to change, and dashed into the bathroom before she could change her mind about letting the sleeping dog lie for now.  
  
It was going to be a long night, but maybe in the morning, Sam might open up to her.  
  


  
Sam opened his eyes and turned to look at the clock on the nightstand between their beds: 3AM. He wished he could make the nightmares go away, the intense loneliness he felt as a result of his dreams of being alone the rest of his life. He stared at the ceiling and sighed: since he’d gotten a fresh lead on the Trickster’s whereabouts, Sam knew he’d need all the sleep he could get in order to remain alert and ready. He was so close.  
  
But his thoughts were interrupted by the growing awareness of a presence next to him in bed. Turning into his side, Sam saw Emma curled up next to his body, hers on top of the covers, deep in sleep on the pillow next to his head. At some point during the night, she had moved from her bed to his, like she could only offer him the most obvious part of herself: her physical presence.  
  
Startled, he could only stare at her, at the peaceful beauty she exuded, of the gentle warmth her body unconsciously gave to him. A part of his heart softened and allowed the acknowledgment that she had meant what she said, that she wanted to be a part of his life no matter what. That she cared about him and gave a damn about what happened to him.  
  
A gentle sigh escaped her lips, rocking Sam to the core of his being. He carefully smoothed her long, curling hair out of her face and watched it thread through his fingers and onto the pillow behind her. She really was his dark-haired angel, he mused. Probably the only other person who walked the earth who could pull him out of this self-imposed revenge, this drive to annihilate Dean’s killer. And what of the darkness looming ahead of him if he succeeded would she be so willing to save him if he fell that far  
  
Emma could be his lifeline; he realized he wanted her to be. Which was why Sam absolutely needed to get away from her as soon as possible. If the Trickster had zero qualms about killing Dean, Sam’s only blood family, then what would happen if the demi-god found out about Emma? Would it go after her, too? Did it know Sam was hot on its heels and searching for another way to lash out at him?  
  
Reluctantly, Sam pulled away from the sleeping woman and wrapped his part of the blankets around her, as if trying to protect her in that simple gesture. Fortunately, she did not stir from the soft movements, which was a blessing. Saying goodbye would be hard enough.  
  
Still dressed in his clothes, Sam grabbed his duffel and headed for the door. He paused, though, and turned back to look at her. _I can’t leave without telling her something, he mused. Friends don’t do that to each other._  
  
As he located some hotel stationary and a pencil, and sat down at the table to write, Sam wondered if Emma would understand why he was doing this.  
  


  
“Sam?” Emma opened her eyes as she spoke his name and wondered at the enveloping warmth she felt. It took only a few moments to realize she was wrapped up in the bedspread like a taco, and Sam was nowhere to be seen.  
  
She sat up in bed, the covers still encircling her frame, and gazed around the room. The bathroom door was wide open, no sounds of water running. Sam’s bag and shoes were gone. _He_ was gone. Emma fisted the bedclothes in both hands and gritted her teeth. “Sam,” she whispered, her heart crushed at the idea of his sneaking away in the middle of the night because he could no longer stand to be around her.  
  
 _I’m not going to cry. I won’t. If he doesn’t want me around, there’s nothing I can do about it._ She sniffed back a scream of frustration and pushed the blankets off her. That was when Emma noticed the folded piece of paper on Sam’s pillow. With a frown, she lifted it from the bed and opened it.  
  


> _Emma,_
> 
> _There’s so much I want to tell you, but I can’t right now. I’m leaving now so there isn’t a messy goodbye. There’s something I have to do first, and then I’ll be back to tell you everything. I promise._
> 
> _Sam_

  
Emma crumpled the note in her hand and brought it to her face, sucking in deep breaths of air to keep her cool. She had to: there was still another promotions day at the convention to get through, and looking likeher best friend had just died was not the way to sell books.  
  
“Sam,” she whispered and glanced back down at the note, “be careful. You better get out of this alive.” With a quick hand across her eyes to wipe away the tears, Emma got out of bed and found the piece of paper with Bobby’s number written on it. Grabbing her cell phone, she dialed the number and ignored the twist of anxiety and fear in her stomach.  
  
“Was wondering when you were gonna call me.”  
  
Said the deep male voice that picked up after the second ring and startled Emma a little. She looked at Sam’s note still in her hand and frowned. “Is this Bobby?” she asked warily. _Maybe I got the wrong number or something._  
  
“Yep, figured you might call after Sam told me about your adventure together,” Bobby replied. “What’s up, Emma? Seen him lately?” There were several pauses as he spoke, which made Emma believe that Bobby was being cautious. Probably about her, she thought.  
  
Her stomach twisted into tighter knots when she thought about Sam’s abrupt departure. “I ran into him last night and I know Dean’s dead.” She forced herself to speak slower and took a deep breath. “He didn’t call me, Bobby, and I’ve been so worried about him. And now he’s . . . taken off and I have no idea where.  
  
“And what did you mean by you were wondering when I’d call?” she finished. “I had to steal this number from Sam’s phone last night because he’s never really told me anything about you.”  
  
Bobby chuckled. “Probably because Sam told me a little about you and that you were trying to help us find a _get out of hell free_ card for Dean. And there’s nothing interesting about me. Just another hunter who helps out when needed.” He paused again. “Where are you now?”  
  
“Forth Worth.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Why do you ask?”  
  
“I thought if you were in the neighborhood, we could meet up and get a monte _christo_ sandwich or something.”  
  
“Bobby, I don’t even know where you – ” Emma stopped when she realized what Bobby was doing. She couldn’t help but laugh a little bit. “I’m not possessed, I swear. I think Sam is, though.”  
  
“Had to check,” he grunted. “Sam’s not possessed. Not with a demon, anyways. Been calling the boy and he’s not answering. I don’t take kindly to being ignored, but I’m just a voice on the phone; don’t seem to carry much weight with him these days.”  
  
She nodded at the empty room. “I know the feeling. He said he was passing through town. Do you happen to know where he’s going?”  
  
Another pause. “How much has he told you about Dean, Emma?”  
  
“Just the stuff about what killed him. And that was sketchy at best.” She sighed heavily and shut her eyes. “I’m worried about Sam. I don’t know what to do, either, because he clearly doesn’t want me around.” She bit down on the hurt in her voice and winced inwardly. Crying on a strange man’s shoulder was not the purpose of her call.  
  
“That makes two of us,” he said and sighed. “Look, I’ll keep calling him. I know he’s tracking the Trickster, and he’ll disappear from the radar until it surfaces again. Only thing you can do now is keep living your life.”  
  
 _Living her life_. Just how was she supposed to do that, knowing her friend was out there somewhere in self-destruct mode? “Okay,” Emma admitted after a moment. “Just keep me posted? He and I have become friends, and I want to know he’s not going to hurt himself.”  
  
“I will,” Bobby said. “You got my number. If he contacts you . . .”  
  
“Sure,” she whispered and disconnected the call. The cell slipped from her hand and landed beside her as she leaned back onto the bed Sam had slept in the night before. She smoothed out his note and read it again. Sam Winchester had made a promise: Emma Boudreaux wished she could do something to ensure he kept it this time.


End file.
